


of pirates and pumpkins.

by bemusedbicycle



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 12:47:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12481904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bemusedbicycle/pseuds/bemusedbicycle
Summary: In which Killian hates Halloween and is terrible at carving pumpkins and has no idea why Granny has fake body parts draped over the free counter space at the diner. A Halloween inspired, CS fluff monster.





	of pirates and pumpkins.

“Huh. I thought you would be better at this,” she mutters, surprise laced in her tone as she reaches over his shoulder to flick an errant pumpkin seed off of his wrist. The damned things and the damned orange –

“Goop.” Henry supplies unhelpfully from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, nose buried in a book and thoroughly uninterested in helping with this evening’s activity. That is, outside of the errant haughty comment here and there. Oh, he imagines Liam somewhere positively  _beset_  with laughter as Henry grows only more impossible by the day and Killian had been far from tolerable as a teenager.

It seems he’s had rather too much of an impression on the young lad.

Henry’s running commentary and the seeds and the  _goop_ are working together to make his life a living hell. He doesn’t understand this strange custom, why carving gourds has anything at all to do with a holiday in which people parade about in frankly scandalous outfits and indulge in treats that will surely render their teeth rotten and –

He spent twenty minutes this morning staring at a dismembered finger, brightly colored fake blood oozing from the obviously fake wound whilst eating his oatmeal at Granny’s. The bloody thing didn’t even look real, and if he had any desire whatsoever to glance at torn bone and tissue and tendon while breaking his morning fast, he would have continued his merry pirating upon the high seas.

“You’re grumpy,” Emma surmises, taking the seat next to him at the kitchen table and reaching into the bowl that houses their sweets. She insists it’s for the children that will come calling, but he’s seen her and Henry’s hands in the bucket more often than not.

He also followed a trail of  _Snit-Snat_ –

“They’re called Kit-Kat’s, for god’s sake.”

–  He followed a trail of  _Kit-Kat_ wrappers he discovered in the hallway upon his return from the station last night, all the way up the stairs and into their bedroom, a half-melted bar still clutched  between her fingers as she snored happily.

“I’m not grumpy,” Killian snaps, rather grumpily.

Henry snorts and reaches into the stockpile at his hip – peanut butter cups, he thinks – shoving the entire thing into his mouth without a care for niceties. “He’s totally grumpy,” he manages around a mouthful of chocolate. “Probably because he’s shit at carving pumpkins.”

Killian sighs. “Language, lad.”

“Apologies. Because he’s the actual worst ever at carving pumpkins.”

“It’s not bad,” Emma tilts her head at the pumpkin in question, his hook still embedded deep within its tenacious flesh. It’s the most impregnable pumpkin in the lot, he’d wager, and he has half a mind to think Henry picked it on purpose to watch him struggle. Emma reaches over and curls her fingers about his wrist, helping him to dislodge his hook. More of the – gods help him –  _goop_  clings to his appendage and he clenches his jaw tight as he wipes it against the newspaper spread across the tabletop. “It’s a – you’re trying to carve a cat, right? I can see the tail.”

His ears flush, and Henry cackles so hard he tips right over on the floor.

“A swan, actually,” he mutters, eyeing the pumpkin and wondering if perhaps he can just hurl the bloody thing across the length of their yard. “That’s the neck.”

“Oh.”

He can see she’s trying to keep the grin from her lips, but it’s a battle fought in vain and he shoves the pumpkin across the table at her with a huff.

“I’d like to see you try, if you think it’s so easy.”

She gives up any attempt to hide her amusement, her laughter loud in their tiny kitchen. It’s enough to make his heart speed in his chest – the way her hair brushes at the apples of her cheeks and that dimple in her chin deepens with her smile. How her socked feet find his beneath the table and tuck neatly between. He almost forgets for a moment he’s supposed to be angry.

“Give it here,” she manages once she calms, her smile still an easy thing on her face. When he merely stares at her blankly, she rolls her eyes and leans forward, twisting his hook from his wrist with an easy, practiced motion. The lick of arousal up his spine is sudden, a reminder of how she had done the exact same thing in their bedroom two nights ago, her legs spread wide and her skin glowing porcelain in the light of the moon as she –

She kicks him beneath the table.

He shrugs.

Situating the pumpkin in front of her, she regards it with narrowed eyes, tapping his hook against her lips in concentration. He shifts in his seat, hardly able to help the warmth that settles low in his belly as he watches her. He kicks her in return when her tongue licks gently at her bottom lip, catching the tip of his hook, sly smile pulling the corners of those delicious lips up.

“Swan,” he warns, feeling his cock press at the zipper of his jeans and heat prick at the back of his neck.

“Yes?”

“Hello, child here,” Henry mumbles from the ground, launching a pack of – twizzlers, he notices, tilting his head to read the bright red wrapper – at the pair of them. “You two continue to be thoroughly disgusting.”

Emma chuckles, pulling the hook away from her mouth and setting to work on the pumpkin – a valiant attempt, no doubt, to turn his monstrosity into something that isn’t –

“Mom, it’s an embarrassment to our family to let that sit on the front porch.”

“I know, kid. That’s why I’m fixing it.”

– something that isn’t an embarrassment, apparently.

Despite them talking as if he’s a scolded child and despite the candy wrappers that litter every inch of free space of their kitchen, the seeds and – bloody buggering  _fuck_  – goop that will undoubtedly take hours to scrub from the cabinets, he finds a smile tugging at his bottom lip, his fingers reaching to snatch one of Henry’s precious peanut butter cups.

“Hey!”

“Protect your loot better, my boy.”

As the chocolate melts in his mouth, and Emma’s feet find his again – her tongue poking between her lips in furious concentration and her blonde hair glowing resplendent in the light on the candles, Henry’s words of  _our family_  nestling neatly in the space beside his heart – he finds himself thinking perhaps Halloween isn’t quite as terrible as he thought.


End file.
